


Liminal (The Belonging Remix)

by out_there



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson transfers to Dalton Academy, and there he meets Kurt Hummel.  A remix of Narie's “There's Friends for Life and Acquaintances”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liminal (The Belonging Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [narie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/narie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [There's Friends for Life and Acquaintances](https://archiveofourown.org/works/244616) by [narie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/narie/pseuds/narie). 



> This is for Narie. It started as a look at Blaine before her story, and then developed a life of its own. It’s a retelling of those events, or how those events might have happened differently. Thank you for running this challenge, Narie. You did a fantastic job. 
> 
> A huge thank you to kmousie as well, who answered numerous emails with unflagging enthusiasm and corrected many rampant grammatical errors.

In Blaine’s last year of middle school, the school holds a Sadie Hawkins dance. Blaine considers asking Jason Williams. He’s tall, a little gangly, with freckles across his nose and an irony-free love of vintage t-shirts and eighties pop. Blaine had math with him last year and sat in the desk behind him. They’re not exactly friends but they say “Hi” in the hallways. Sometimes they nod and smile on their way to class. Jason’s the only out gay kid at their school.

Blaine’s not out. He told his parents six months ago and told Cooper when he visited three months ago, but he hasn’t told anyone else. He thinks he should. If he knows who he is, he shouldn’t lie by omission. He should ask a boy out and go to a school dance without hiding anything.

After a week of thinking about it, of sweaty palms every time he sees Jason in the hallways, Blaine decides against it. The whole point of Sadie Hawkins is that the girls get to ask. If he were straight, he wouldn’t be asking anyone to the dance. He might like boys, but that doesn’t make him a girl. It feels important that the same rules should apply to him, whether he’s gay or not.

So he spends that Friday night at home, watching his mom’s John Hughes movies and eating ice-cream. The house is quiet with his parents out for the night, and he feels a little sorry for himself but he’s never had the personality for moping. He’s always been good at making the most out of things.

***

Jason doesn’t come back to school after the dance. There are rumours that he got beaten up, but nobody’s quite sure who did it. His supposed injuries range from a black eye and a split lip to three cracked ribs and a fractured wrist. Blaine even heard one of the girls say Jason was punched so hard he’s been in a coma for weeks, but Blaine doesn’t think that’s medically possible.

He never finds out what really happened. There’s no official confirmation. Jason doesn’t come back to school, and the next Monday his locker’s been cleared out.

Weeks later, Blaine’s parents sit him down to discuss his mom’s new job in Lima. How impractical it would be to drive him to high school here when she could drop him at William McKinley High on her way each morning. They don’t mention Jason, or being gay, or the route his dad drives to work, right past the front of the high school all of Blaine’s friends will be going to. From the way they talk about the challenges of fitting in somewhere new, Blaine knows some of the rumours about Jason must have been true.

***

McKinley is bigger and louder than Blaine was expecting. He spends the first half of freshman year navigating the edges of crowds. He smiles and remembers his manners, and he learns to step out of the way when hulking letterman jackets roam the halls. He’s friendly to enough people that he doesn’t have to sit alone at lunch, but he doesn’t make any real friends until Rachel Berry railroads him into joining the glee club. Rachel is the most overbearing sophomore he’s ever met, and she refuses to take no for an answer.

“I’ve never sung in public,” Blaine tries to explain, but Rachel stares at him with crazy-wide eyes and a stretched smile that looks painful.

“That’s fine. Part of every glee club is a strong background harmony, and we need twelve members. This is the perfect time to join.”

***

New Directions turns out to be the craziest, strangest group of people. There are Cheerios and footballers, divas and AV geeks, a goth girl and Blaine. Blaine is the least interesting member, and that suits him fine. There are relationship dramas, especially between Quinn, Finn, Rachel and Puck, but everyone occasionally gets crossed in love. There are weekly competitions and infighting, clawing for solos and spotlights. But for all the backstabbing and gossip, there are friendships too. They all care about the group, they all love singing and performing, and they all want to win.

It’s like a huge family reunion: simmering resentment and ongoing arguments mixed with so much love and the fond, exasperated acceptance that comes from knowing someone too well.

It’s strange and vicious and sometimes just plain weird, but Blaine loves every minute of it.

***

New Directions is where Blaine makes friends. First, with Matt and Mike, with smiles and nods as the three of them sit quietly in the back row. They sing together in the group numbers, but in the choir room they let the others talk back to Mr Schuester. Tina somehow gravitates to their quiet little corner, and their quiet trio becomes a quiet quartet.

Blaine doesn’t really talk to anyone else until the duets competition, when he gets paired with Mercedes. Their musical tastes don’t overlap much, so Blaine compromises. They manage a reasonable performance, although they don’t win.

Mercedes shrugs off the loss and says, “It’s probably just as well. As much as I love Breadstix, I don’t think I could date a boy so head-over-heels about Katy Perry.”

“She’s an amazing performer,” Blaine says, keeping his tone polite. They’ve already discussed his musical taste or his lack thereof, according to Mercedes.

“Oh, please,” Mercedes says, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “She barely sings. The girl is all props and make-up.”

Blaine loves Katy Perry the way he loves Marilyn Monroe. He’s read the autobiographies and seen pictures of them when they were young, pretty, unmemorable girls – before the whole world fell in love with them. It’s not superficial, it’s _transformation_. It’s how they speak, how they hold their heads high and walk with confidence. It’s becoming someone new, someone loved by millions.

Blaine couldn’t explain that if he tried. “She’s very talented,” he insists.

Mercedes gives him a steady, disbelieving look, and then her face softens into a bright smile. “You’re a teenage boy. I probably don’t appreciate the talents you’re looking at.”

Blaine blinks. He smiles out of habit, nodding a little. He knows Katy Perry is pretty, but he doesn’t watch her music clips to ogle her. It has nothing to do with that.

It’s strange to realise someone’s assumptions about you are so completely wrong. Mercedes thinks he’s straight. She thinks he has a celebrity crush on Katy Perry. He’s used to hiding in the hallways and being able to relax and sing in the choir room; it’s jarring to realise that even here, everyone still thinks he’s someone else.

Blaine tries to see it as proof that he’s fitting in. His dad would be proud of him.

***

Blaine doesn’t date anyone, for obvious reasons. There isn’t anyone out at this school. Blaine isn’t going to be the first. He’s going to keep his head down; he’s going to be polite and vaguely liked and mostly overlooked.

Santana and Brittany seem to have slept with half of the guys at the school. Puck’s working his way through the Cheerios. Finn, the star quarterback, has dated only two girls, and he’d been with Quinn since the second week of their freshman year. The other half of the club hadn’t dated at all before glee club, and Matt was a junior.

It’s not weird that Blaine doesn’t date. It’s not weird that he’s a sophomore and doesn’t have a girlfriend. When he gets invited to parties, he always goes and plays Spin the Bottle with as much enthusiasm as anyone else. When the Cheerios hold a kissing booth to raise funds for charity, Blaine lines up with all the other guys and pays his five dollars. He does what everyone expects. He fits in without leading anyone on or breaking anyone’s heart. It feels easier than it should.

Blaine thinks lying should be harder. Honesty shouldn’t be the more terrifying option.

***

His sophomore year passes the same way his freshman year did. Blaine keeps out of trouble, stays as well-mannered and bland as he can, mostly gets overlooked by the bullies. There’s a few names, a few heedless shoves into lockers, but it’s just the general teasing that most of the glee club gets. There’s nothing personal in it. It’s a lot less targeted than with Rachel and Artie.

Blaine doesn’t know how Rachel does it. He sees the inside of her locker, photos of her and Finn proudly tacked beneath photos of her and her two dads posing formally for the camera. In the yearbook, she’s in a dozen different extra-curricular clubs and in each one her picture’s been scribbled over with devil horns and glasses, fake cleavage or speech bubbles saying, “I suck!” The comments on her MySpace page range from mean to truly horrendous.

She gets slushied once a week and still insists on solos, still stands up loudly and asks to be noticed. No matter what, she does it and smiles, and holds her head up when the next slushy comes.

***

Blaine’s almost through his sophomore year when he gets outed. It happens in the strangest way possible: on “Fondue for Two”.

It’s Brittany’s weekly internet chat show. Blaine watches it because he likes Brittany, even if he doesn’t always understand her, and he likes supporting his fellow choir members. He likes leaving positive feedback on Rachel’s MySpace page when she posts a new performance; he likes cheering at football games, even when the guys lose miserably.

So he watches Brittany eat melted cheese with her cat, and anyone else she can talk into being filmed with her, and talk about a surprising range of topics. She’s talked about ecstasy addiction, foods that can be both breakfast and dinner, best methods of dealing with fleas and most annoying talcum powder brands. Blaine’s a little surprised when this week’s topic is threesomes, but it’s not the first time Brittany’s discussed something sexual.

Santana’s sitting beside her, crunching a carrot stick between square, white teeth, and nodding along to Brittany’s “tips for beginners”. So far, it’s included tying your hair back (because leaning on someone else’s hair is never sexy) and never attempting to fit three people on a twin-sized bed (apparently, it never works).

“One of the most important tips to remember is choice of partner,” Brittany says, pausing to suck a bit of cheese off her thumb. “When getting into a threesome, you need someone everyone will be attracted to.”

Santana nods. “It’s only fun if everyone’s getting a little something-something.”

“It’s important just to get them to agree. I mean, take Blaine,” Brittany says to Santana, and Blaine feels his stomach knot instantly. “I suggested a threesome with you and me, and he turned me down. I’m pretty sure if I suggested a threesome with me and Puck, he totally would have gone for it.”

“Well, yeah,” Santana says, but Blaine closes his laptop before he has to listen to whatever horrible thing gets said next.

***

Even before that, Blaine had started most weeks thinking, “Only two more years to go.” Sometimes, he even counted down the days left of high school. He’s just waiting for high school to be over, for college or a job or anything that gets him out of here. He wants to live somewhere he can breathe; he wants to wake each day without worrying about how much of himself he lets show.

Then Brittany’s ridiculous comments become common knowledge around the school, and everything gets worse.

He gets shoved into lockers with enough force to bruise. He gets slushied three times that week and the worst thing isn’t the stinging ice on his face. It isn’t the humiliation of having to retreat to a bathroom to wash it out of his hair and slather enough gel on it to force the curls back down. It’s the way it drips onto his clothes and stains them.

He stops wearing the shirts and bowties that he loves and starts wearing the darkest polo shirts he owns.

The next week, he gets slushied twice in the same day. The first time, he changes into his gym clothes for the afternoon and washes his polo shirt out in the bathroom sink. The second time, he does his best to clean it off, but it’s the first thing his mom comments on when she picks him up. He tells her a kid tripped with a slushy in his hand; it’s somehow less embarrassing than the truth.

The truth is that his parents will worry. The truth is that he’s supposed to be fitting in here. The truth is that he’s miserable and humiliated, and it has to blow over. If he just keeps going to school, if he doesn’t make a fuss, if he doesn’t argue back, if he doesn’t sink to their level, it will blow over. That’s what everyone says. If you don’t react, bullies will get bored. They’ll leave you alone eventually.

So he doesn’t tell his parents about the bright pink spray paint across his locker: “FAG” and “HOMO” in large messy letters. He doesn’t tell them that after gym class, he finds his clothes shoved into a toilet and has to spend the rest of the day in his sweaty sports uniform, trying not to feel self-conscious in shorts he’d usually only wear to a pool.

Blaine starts keeping spare clothes in his locker, along with hair-gel, face wash and a handtowel. He gets sick of borrowing the janitor’s stores, and starts keeping spray-and-wipe in there too.

***

It feels awful to know how disliked he is, but Blaine tries to remember that most of these people weren’t his friends. They don’t know him. They don’t like what he is, but they’ve never known _who_ he is.

That works until a bunch of the football jocks try to toss him in the dumpster. Mike and Sam aren’t there and Matt graduated last year, but there’s still Finn and Puck. They’ve known him for nearly two years, but when he points that out, Finn looks embarrassed and Puck just shrugs.

“It’s how the system works,” Puck says, leaning over Blaine and exaggerating the height difference. “Football players keep the freaks and geeks in line, and if you’re going to be a full-blown homo, that makes you the biggest freak here.”

“We’re friends. You know me,” Blaine says urgently, stepping back as they crowd forward.

“We know you were in the locker rooms with us.” Puck gestures at himself and flexes one arm. “Although I can understand why you’d want to check this out.”

“Finn,” Blaine tries, hating the whine in his voice. He knows for a fact that he changed with his back to the rest of the room and kept staring at the floor. He never looked at the other guys; he’s not suicidal. “I didn’t—”

“We showered together,” Finn says mournfully. “It’s not cool, dude.”

“You know what is cool?” Puck asks as he darts forward and grabs hold of Blaine’s shoulders. “Dumpster diving!”

Blaine flings an arm out. He kicks. He fights with everything he has, and he even connects a couple times. But there are half a dozen of them and they still lift him up and throw him in. The bag he lands on splits, and he can feel something soaking into his jeans as the lid clatters shut above him.

The smell is putrid, like a full trashcan left in the sun, but he doesn’t get out. He sits in the dark, listening to his own unsteady breathing until after the bell sounds. He waits until the parking lot sounds empty. The thought of having to climb out, having to struggle out of the dumpster and then walk inside reeking to find somewhere to change, the thought of everyone knowing makes him want to cry.

But he can’t sit in here all day. So he climbs out, loses his grip at the top and falls onto the asphalt, scraping his palms and his pride. Then he finds his phone and tells his mom he needs a ride home.

***

That weekend, his parents sit him down to discuss Dalton Academy for Boys. They talk about academic achievements and future opportunities. They want him to have his best chance at a good college; they think the structure and academic challenge will be good for him. The brochures are glossy, full of colourful shots of luxurious rooms and well-presented boys in blazers and ties. Transferring before he starts his junior year would be the best time for him, his parents say.

They don’t say that Blaine failed to fit in. That Blaine couldn’t meet that challenge.

Blaine thinks he should try harder. He should tell them that he’ll do better at McKinley, that they don’t need to rearrange everything just because of a little bullying. He should be stronger than he is. He should be a better person.

But he’s miserable and he wants to escape McKinley, so instead he says how great the curriculum looks and asks when he can see the campus.

***

Dalton is terrifyingly adult compared to McKinley. McKinley was full of kids, yelling and shoving, running down hallways and squabbling. The Dalton hallways are full of young men in blazers and ties, walking calmly and confidently to class. Blaine can imagine them in suits, commuting into big cities to powerful jobs, and the conversation would still be the same. He’d overhear snatches of polite chat about the weather or plans for family vacations over the next holidays, sports talk overheard here and assignment deadlines discussed there.

It’s quiet and civilised, and Blaine keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. At McKinley he was too different to fit in, and here he’s too childish. He does his best. He smiles politely and remembers his manners, he thinks before he gushes with enthusiasm about anything. He tries to remember who’s on the polo team and who’s on the lacrosse team, and to ask about the right sport. He does his best to be neat and presentable every morning as he heads down the stairs.

Blaine tries to be mature, well-mannered and responsible, all the things a Dalton gentleman should be. A Dalton gentleman is an upstanding member of his community, a reliable friend and honourable competitor. A Dalton gentleman doesn’t lie awake at night on scratchy cotton sheets pulled tight over a narrow bed, wishing he was home and trying not to cry. A Dalton gentleman is a source of pride to his family; he fits in, conforms, and makes the most of his opportunities.

***

Dalton is a school of rules. They apply to everyone and everyone follows them.

It feels strange after McKinley’s sliding scale of accountability. Blaine’s used to rules not applying to the popular kids on winning teams, but at Dalton it doesn’t matter if the lacrosse team is a Division I contender or the rowing team is training for regional championships. A loosened tie will earn demerit points, regardless of your social standing or how well your parents know the principal.

Blaine’s always taken pride in a neat appearance, so it’s easy to follow the rules about deportment. Uniform to be worn from breakfast until dinner, unless it’s a weekend. Uniform means ties done up and clean, fresh shirts to be tucked in; blazers on and buttoned, or removed completely. Hair to be kept short and neat, shoes to be clean and polished.

Blaine stands a little taller in the corridors. He could say it’s because it takes effort to slouch in a blazer, but that’s not the truth. The truth is that on campus, he’s just another Dalton boy. Here, he can wear a sharply ironed shirt and tie and it’s completely unremarkable. It’s expected. To fit in, he only has to follow the rules printed in his student handbook. It’s a relief to have it so explicitly detailed for him.

***

The worst school rule, in Blaine’s opinion, is that first-year students aren’t allowed to own a car. Not every student has a car, but on weekends the school is haunted by recent transfers and out-of-state freshmen. Most of the local guys go home for weekends. Blaine only lives two hours away, basically a local, but he has to spend his weekends on campus. He couldn’t reasonably ask his parents to drive eight hours in a weekend to pick him up and drop him back.

Blaine makes the most of his unscheduled hours and studies hard. Achieving a 4.0 GPA in Dalton is a lot more demanding than it was at McKinley, so it’s good that he has the extra time. He doesn’t need to go home. He might have stupid dreams of waking up in his own bed, in his own room, but he’s not selfish enough to complain to his mother and father about it.

When they call twice a week, Blaine always makes an effort to emphasise the positive. The curriculum is a lot more challenging. The facilities are luxurious in a way that Blaine never associated with school. The other boys are polite and friendly. It’s only ever small talk, nothing demanding, nothing too challenging. 

Talking to his parents is as easy as talking to other Dalton boys. Blaine can hold a conversation, nod and make friends and never have to go into details of why he transferred, because nobody asks. Nobody really wants to know.

***

Blaine joins the fencing club because the handbook states that every student is expected to be a member of at least one athletic and one extra-curricular club. Blaine’s too short for basketball and too slight for football, and the lacrosse team is fast and fiercely terrifying on the field. He’s not a huge fan of track and he never hits anything on Wii Tennis, so anything with a racquet is out. But he’s always been a fan of those old Errol Flynn movies, swashbuckling and swinging across decks brandishing a sword, so the fencing sounds fun.

So far, the fencing has been all about twisting his wrist a certain way, holding his stance and learning the scoring system. It’s not adventurous or particularly gentlemanly, but it’s still a lot better than getting up before dawn for rowing practice.

For an extra-curricular, Blaine joins the Warblers. Show choir was the best thing about McKinley and when he’s feeling melancholy and homesick, it’s the only thing he misses from his old school. He misses the choir room, the group of friends who’d encouraged and (almost) accepted him, and how it had made the rest of McKinley feel less huge and scary. It was the place he felt safest.

The Warblers aren’t safe or caring. They’re efficient, well-timed and carefully ordered. There’s a waiting list for new members and auditions before you’re allowed to even sway in the background and sing backup. They have a schedule and a set list, and the choreography is finalised months before the choir starts learning it. Any changes are discussed with the council and decided by majority vote.

There are traditions that are followed like laws. There are rulebooks that dictate the acceptable membership numbers of the group and the appropriate style of dress for competitions. Even when the tradition is strange and pointless, like the canary named Montserrat that’s given to Blaine at his first rehearsal, it’s still followed with solemn importance.

There are no divas, no theatrics, and no personal drama allowed. The only thing they have in common with New Directions is that they sing.

***

When Blaine needs a break from staring at books on the weekend, he wanders down to the student parking lot. It’s mostly empty by midday, everyone taking advantage of limited free hours and the relative closeness of Columbus. Blaine’s not much of a car person, but he kind of has a favourite car. There’s a black Navigator that’s there more often than not. It always shines, polished to gleaming perfection. Even the wheel rims glint in the sunlight.

Blaine can’t see past the tinted windows, but he wonders if it’s as clean inside. If there are seat covers in matching black. If the student who owns it is fastidious about everything or just really into cars. In a fit of curiosity, Blaine leans up against one of the windows, shading his eyes and trying to see inside. He nearly jumps when someone clears their throat behind him.

“If you’ve left smudges,” says a boy who sounds like a freshman, “you will be polishing them out.”

Blaine turns, embarrassed and trying to smile through it. “I’m sorry. Is this yours?”

“Yes,” is the short, icy reply. The boy is taller than Blaine, so probably not a freshman. He’s wearing an indigo scoop-necked top with a silver-threaded waistcoat over it, blue and white plaid slacks and ankle-high white Doc Martens. Blaine doesn’t think he’s ever spent quite so long staring at another guy’s clothes, but there are tiny chains and safety pins hanging from the guy’s belt and his brooch is a tiny pair of scissors.

Blaine realises he’s staring. It’s rude. It’s probably making the guy uncomfortable. “I’m Blaine.” He holds a hand out, but the other boy arches an eyebrow at him.

“Kurt Hummel,” he says, with a brief mocking smile. “And if you’ll step aside, I’d like to get into my car.”

“Oh, of course,” Blaine says, stepping awkwardly aside. “Sorry.”

***

Blaine almost wishes he’d never gone to McKinley. It would be nice to accept things at Dalton as the way things are, rather than constantly comparing them to McKinley. He wishes he could accept the noises of busy hallways without thinking that at McKinley, there’d be a clang and nasty laughter as someone gets bodychecked into a locker.

Classes are interesting and well-behaved, everyone hands their work in on time and listens to the teacher, but Blaine always thinks it’s better than McKinley. It’s more demanding. He’s not paying attention to be polite anymore; he has to pay attention in class to be able to do his homework.

He wishes he could accept the dining room food without thinking of McKinley. The food at Dalton is superior: roasted, steamed or sautéed in sauces Blaine’s hesitant to pronounce. But he still thinks of smiling at the lunch lady and asking for an extra serving of tater tots so Mercedes wouldn’t miss out.

Going to Sectionals is that same strange mix of what Blaine expects from his two years at McKinley clashing with how Dalton does things. At McKinley, the weeks before Sectionals would involve some weird fundraising scheme for gas money and bus hire. There would be diva-offs and heightened squabbling over solos, and getting parents to sign permission slips (or in Puck’s case, a reasonable forgery of his mom’s signature). There would be a collection of eight songs or so, but no defined set list. (Since Coach Sylvester leaked their songs that first year, it’s become tradition to wait until the last minute to finalise competition choices. It’s part superstition and part defence against Coach Sylvester.)

The bus to Sectionals would smell musty and weird, and everyone would clamber on to claim a seat far away from the worst smells. Artie would play on his PSP, Mike and Tina would read, and the Cheerios would chatter about make-up and clothes while Rachel saved her voice for the competition. They’d pass around junk food and soda but keep it out of sight so Mr Schuester wouldn’t have to lie about his glee club breaking the rules. It would be loud and excited, an equal mix of anticipation and terror.

Dalton is nothing like that. The Warblers are told when and where to amass, and everyone waits in a straight line as the school bus pulls up. It’s not a bus, despite how the students refer to it. It’s a coach with air-conditioning, fabric on the seats and no unpleasant odours. They’re grouped into vocal sections and assigned seating. The entire three-hour drive is spent warming up, rehearsing the performance songs, rehearsing the rest of their repertoire and then rehearsing the performance songs again.

Blaine knows it’s the most prepared he’s ever been before a performance. He just wishes he felt ready for it.

***

As a member of the Warblers, Blaine knows they deserve his loyalty but… He’s known New Directions for two years. They’re his friends. They were the best part about McKinley and it works differently there. If a club loses a competition, it loses faculty support and rehearsal space, and then becomes a footnote in the yearbook with the chess team, the algebra enthusiasts and the god squad.

If the Warblers lose, they’ll still have their common room. They’ll still have rehearsals and set lists; they’ll book performances at local retirement homes and shopping malls. Competitions are a highlight of their year but they don’t determine the group’s future existence.

So even though he tries his best at Sectionals and he wants to live up to the expectations of the council, Blaine doesn’t want anyone to be disappointed. He’s full of nerves waiting on that stage, hands fisted together behind his back. When they announce a tie, he whoops for joy. It’s better than he’d dared to hope for. With a first-place tie, both teams get to go to Regionals and he doesn’t have to feel guilty for anyone losing.

He takes a moment to knock on the door of the New Directions dressing room to congratulate them. He only has ten minutes before the Warblers notice he’s missing. It’s enough time for Tina to pull him into a hug, squealing with excitement. Then Mercedes hugs him and Mike claps him on the back, and he’d forgotten how that felt. To be touched so easily. To be so welcome.

If Blaine’s honest with himself, he wasn’t sure they’d even want to see him. Knowing that he’s still considered a friend unknots something in his spine and lets him relax.

Brittany loops an arm around his neck – while Santana glares – and kisses his cheek, saying, “I’m sorry my hard-hitting style of journalism forced you to become a blue penguin.”

“Um, okay,” Blaine says, wondering what precisely makes him look like a short, flightless bird and why Brittany would assume he’s sad. He knows better than to ask. It would be rude. “Apology accepted.”

Brittany gives him a wide-eyed stare, perfectly serious as she says, “Good. Because I saw this documentary last week where all the penguins danced and it explained why penguins have to stay in groups. It’s because the outside ones freeze to death.”

“I think they take turns,” Blaine replies. “I don’t think anyone actually dies.”

“Just stay in the middle. Especially if it’s winter,” she says, squeezing his hand for a moment and walking away when Santana calls her over.

On the other side of the room, there’s a group of the guys with their heads bowed over some game. Blaine recognises Artie, Puck and Finn but there’s a new girl and a few new guys there too. The group doesn’t look up, like they haven’t noticed Blaine at all. Blaine shouldn’t be hurt by that.

Beside him, Rachel clears her throat. “I’m glad you found a new glee club,” she says, “even if you did abandon New Directions in our time of need and forced us to drag the band kids here to make up numbers. We’ve even had to accept Lauren Zizes as a member, and she couldn’t carry a tune with a rubber, arthritis-friendly handle.”

It’s not like Blaine wanted to leave. He didn’t have a choice. It doesn’t make him feel any better about letting the club down. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you.”

“If you do decide to transfer back, I wanted you to know that I’ve spoken to both Puck and Finn about how unacceptable it is to bully a fellow glee club member. Finn even volunteered to help you sneak in the back entrance so you wouldn’t get tossed in the dumpster every morning.”

Blaine can imagine it too easily: slinking around the hallways, waiting for crowds to pass before stepping inside, always on guard and waiting for the next slushy, the next shove, the next humiliating insult. He couldn’t live like that. He’s not strong enough. “I like it at Dalton,” he says because it’s so much easier than saying: _I can’t, I’m too scared._

“Well, if you change your mind, the offer stands. We do miss the energy you bring to group numbers.”

After that, it’s a relief to sit on the Dalton bus. To feel the air-conditioning on his face and listen to the quiet, unobtrusive conversations around him. It’s nice to be able to nod and make small talk, and not have to think about anything more personal than when their medieval history paper is due or what his study plans are for the weekend. The expectations at Dalton are so impersonal and structured; it’s much easier.

***

Given the size of the school, Dalton seems to have an overabundance of common rooms. There are common rooms divided by class level, by faculty, by school sports teams. They range from the formal rooms on the ground floor with old wooden desks and overstuffed leather couches, to the games room in the attic (a wide space with three large televisions and game consoles, five couches that have seen better days and an ever-present crowd of boys playing out tournaments and trash-talking). Blaine’s favourite rooms are on the second floor: the choir room, arts common room, and farther along the hall, the senior common room with its cosy pair of couches. What these three rooms have in common are upright pianos tucked against the walls.

Blaine didn’t take music this semester. It wasn’t necessary for Dalton’s graduation criteria and he had sophomore credits to make up. He may not love Calculus and Advanced French gives him nightmares, but there’s no point going to Dalton if he can’t graduate next year.

Luckily, he’s found the senior boys have usually fled the campus by midday Saturday, so he can sneak into the senior common room and use their piano. There’s a collection of sheet music in the bench: old standards from the American Songbook and easier classical pieces. He plays _Moonlight Sonata_ and fudges the trickier sections. He plays _Winter Wonderland_ and hums along. He tries playing some old Christina Aguilera but can’t quite remember the notes.

He starts playing _Seasons of Love_ from Rent, and his fingers remember the notes better than his voice does. He has the Broadway recording at home and begged his mom for the sheet music. In his first few months at McKinley, when he didn’t know anyone, when he realised that with a little effort he could go through an entire day without having to speak to anyone other than the lunchlady, he’d come home after school and play this while his mom cooked dinner. He could play and sing and be someone else for a while. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the clatter of pots and running water, he can smell garlic and sweet soy sauce and the sizzle of stirfry.

There’s a slow clap behind him. Blaine pulls his hands off the keys and turns, and there’s the boy from the parking lot. Kurt Hummel, Blaine remembers. This time, he’s wearing an olive green chunky knit cardigan and black skinny jeans with green suede shoes. There’s a light cotton scarf looped around his throat, green and grey and flecks of blue. It almost matches his eyes.

“Um, hi,” Blaine says, standing up and gathering the sheet music, “I was just—”

“Performing the sort of Broadway number the Warblers would never approve?” Kurt asks lightly. “Because they wouldn’t, you know. Trust me, I tried. The founding fathers would roll over in their collective graves if the Warblers performed anything more unconventional than Top Forties.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest they sing it,” Blaine says, neatly stacking the pages away and closing the bench. Blaine’s one of the newest members. He wouldn’t dream of suggesting a change to their repertoire. “I just… like it.”

“So do I.” Kurt gives him a long look, and then smiles. It’s a very lovely smile. “If it wasn’t for clashing rehearsal times, I’d try to talk you into joining the Drama Club. We could do with a few more members who genuinely like musicals, and a few less whose sole reason for joining was to meet girls from our sister school.”

Blaine smiles back. It’s his default cover when he doesn’t know what to say. He might be reading too much into Kurt’s comment; it might be overreacting to jump forward and claim that he wants to meet girls too – especially when he doesn’t. He’s not out at Dalton but he’s not in the closet either. It’s not lying if nobody’s asked.

“Relax, I’m not going to poach you from the Warblers,” Kurt says breezily, waving one graceful hand through the air. “I was looking for you for a completely different reason.”

“Really?”

“One of your fellow little birdies mentioned that you sang against your old high school in Lima. You live around there?”

“Elida,” Blaine replies. “About fifteen minutes away.”

“My dad lives in Lima. I’m going back there next weekend for his birthday. I thought if you wanted a lift, and I’m going there anyway…” There’s another graceful sway of Kurt’s hand, and Blaine realises he’s not going to finish that sentence.

“I’d really appreciate that,” Blaine says, remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

There’s a moment when Kurt stands there and looks a little confused, as if there’s something Blaine should have said and didn’t. He looks Blaine up and down, and then smirks. “You know, juniors aren’t supposed to be in here without invitation.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Blaine manages, feeling his face start to heat, “I won’t—”

“Tell them I invited you. If anyone asks.” Kurt shrugs, giving a cheeky grin. “That piano could do with a few more show tunes.”

***

Kurt’s car is as fastidiously clean inside as Blaine imagined it would be. It looks like every surface is polished. Blaine feels like he’s messing things up just by sitting in it. He keeps his hands folded in his lap and tries not to leave smudges.

It’s been thirty minutes so far. Thirty minutes of Broadway tunes Blaine’s not sure he’s supposed to admit to knowing; thirty minutes of Kurt humming under his breath and then occasionally singing with the sopranos, voice high and crystal clear. There’s something incredible about him, and it’s not just his voice. It’s not just the fashions, the brooches and scarves and the unapologetic boldness of it all. It’s not just the way he holds himself, straight-backed and graceful. And it’s not just the curve of his cheek or those clear eyes, the disbelieving sarcasm of a lifted brow or the surprising sweetness of his smile. It’s all of those things.

It makes Blaine wonder if this is what having a crush feels like: stunned into silence, awed and amazed until you can’t think of a thing to say that isn’t ridiculously stupid.

It’s kind of scary because this never would have happened at McKinley. Blaine was good at barely glancing at other boys, at making sure that his interest was friendly at the most and never inappropriate. He never would have dared to sneak sidelong glances at a guy; not even one of the New Directions, and they’d be the least likely to pound him into the floor if he was caught.

But that won’t happen at Dalton. The worst that will happen is Kurt will stop speaking to him. Maybe the Warblers would suddenly find their ranks too full to have him; maybe there’d be hushed whispers and rumours. But he won’t get tossed into dumpsters. He won’t get shoved against lockers. He won’t be hit, he won’t be bruised and he won’t be humiliated. The worst case is a little bit of gossip, and the best case…

The best case…

The best case, Blaine tells himself, is that Kurt won’t even notice. He won’t find it creepy or off-putting or anything else. He’ll ignore it and Blaine will be able to nurture a harmless little crush in peace.

***

“Two hours’ drive,” Kurt says as he pulls into Blaine’s driveway and throws the car into park, “and you didn’t say a word. I think that’s some kind of record.”

“Sorry,” Blaine says, because he should have made conversation. He should have said something. He just doesn’t know what. “I, um…”

“Consider yourself on notice,” Kurt says sharply, but he smiles. “When I pick you up at four on Sunday, you need to have at least three comments prepared on the new Jimmy Choo line.”

“I’ll try,” Blaine says, and he nearly trips over his own feet getting out of the car. “I’ll see you on Sunday,” he says, and Kurt gives a fluttery wave as he pulls away.

Blaine stares after him, wondering if there was any possible way that could have gone worse. Honestly, Kurt’s probably dreading the drive back with him. It feels like one more thing he needs to try harder at getting right, one more hurdle he has to jump over while everyone else steps easily past it.

Then his front door opens. Blaine forgets his embarrassment and uncertainty as his mom steps down from the porch and wraps him in a hug that smells of lilies and lilacs.

***

Blaine wakes up in his own bed, in his own room, and nearly laughs at how good it feels. He pulls his robe on – fuzzy burgundy fleece, worn around the cuffs and now sitting inches above his ankles – and heads downstairs, following the smell of pancakes. His mom’s in the kitchen, dropping blueberries over a pan. There’s a crease ironed into her white linen shorts and the flat sandals she’s wearing are held together by a multitude of delicate blue straps. Her hair is pinned back at her temples and the unruly curls have been restricted into dark ringlets for today.

There’s so much of himself he can see in her: his height, his eyes, his hair. Her tendency to hum as she does the dishes. Her enthusiasm for colour and her sweet tooth. It’s amazing how being home lets him breathe a little easier. Just having his mom here makes the whole world feel smaller and safer.

When he walks into the room, she steps away from the stove to hug him close. It’s a long moment before he lets her go. “Orange juice?” he asks, getting the glasses out of the cupboard when she nods. He pours the juice and puts it back in the fridge, beside the milk where it belongs.

There’s a sizzle as she pours more mix into the pan. “It was just bad timing. You know your father booked the conference months ago,” she says, letting blueberries fall from her fingers. It’s not exactly a question, but it feels like she’s asking Blaine something.

“I know. I didn’t give him much notice that I was coming home this weekend. There’ll be other weekends.”

“It’s not that he didn’t want to be here.” His mom says it so carefully, so intently, that Blaine wonders if it’s true. Of course the conference was already booked, his dad wouldn’t lie about that, but maybe it had been a convenient excuse as well. There are so many things they don’t talk about. Maybe those unsaid things are easier to ignore when Blaine’s not in this house.

“I know how busy he is,” Blaine says, getting cutlery out of the drawer and setting the table. “It’s fine.”

“I’m glad to see you,” his mom says, and Blaine returns her smile.

***

It’s a weirdly ordinary weekend. He offers to vacuum while his mom attacks the bathrooms; he mows the lawn while his mom mops the kitchen floor. They eat lunch outside and debate grocery shopping or going to the movies, and compromise on shopping and renting some DVDs. It’s quiet and it’s just them, and it’s home.

Then his mom says, “So, this boy who gave you a ride here? Tell me about him.”

Blaine shrugs. “His name’s Kurt.”

“And he’s a friend?”

“We’re not exactly friends,” Blaine manages. “He used to be a Warbler, I think, and he’s a senior. But, um…”

“Oh,” his mom says meaningfully, and Blaine can feel his entire face flush. “Not exactly a friend, but you like him?”

“As a friend,” Blaine says quickly, lying in sheer desperation. “I barely know him, really. He lives close by and was visiting his dad. It wasn’t far out of his way.”

His mom just watches him. And smiles.

***

For all of Blaine’s worries that afternoon, his mom doesn’t say anything embarrassing when she opens the door to Kurt. She makes small talk for a few minutes, and then they’re on their way back to Dalton.

Blaine has done his homework, so when Kurt asks him for three opinions he can comment on the almost-aggressively pointed toes and the steel stilettos that make him think of ice-picks and that old thriller with Sharon Stone.

“You didn’t like them at all?” Kurt asks, frowning at the road and checking his mirrors twice before he changes lanes.

“I liked the colours,” Blaine says quickly. He knows this is a test, even if he doesn’t know how to pass it. “Especially the fuchsia. It was… brave.”

“Brave?” From the corner of his eye, Kurt studies Blaine like a scientist would observe an amoeba. It’s how Blaine’s mom would look at a stain on the carpet. “How so?”

Blaine doesn’t know the right answer. Kurt probably expects a clear, certain opinion, but Blaine’s not sure what it should be. Since he doesn’t know what Kurt wants to hear, Blaine goes with the second-best option and tries honesty. “They’re bright. Bold. Unapologetic. You couldn’t wear shoes like that and hide in a crowd.”

“Which is precisely why I think they’re fantastic. Bold and dangerous and _demanding_ ,” Kurt says, voice curling low and warm around that last word. “It’s what fashion should be, don’t you think?”

Blaine thinks about his polo shirts and bowties, about the comforting structure of a Dalton tie around his neck. “I think it should be about feeling good.”

Kurt’s chin tilts up. “Comfort has no place in fashion.”

“You should be able to wear what makes you feel comfortable,” Blaine replies, a little too firmly. “You should be able to present yourself the way you want to be seen. It’s not about trends and what some magazine decrees is in right now, it’s about what clothes mean to you. What they represent and make you think of and what you value. It’s about choosing the parts of you to show to the world.”

Blaine listens to the engine hum and the wind whistle past the car windows. There’s ninety minutes of driving left and there’s a tiny furrow between Kurt’s brows. Blaine shouldn’t have said anything. He shouldn’t have argued something so ridiculous where he has no authority for his opinion. Look at Kurt’s clothes; fashion is important to him. He probably knows a lot more about it than Blaine. Blaine should have stayed cool and made small talk and agreed with Kurt. He should have thought before he spoke.

He should be doing this better.

Blaine forces his politest smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re probably right.”

“You know,” Kurt says, face scrunching up in a quick smile, “some of my favourite people are the ones who don’t always agree with me.”

Blaine can’t quite imagine that. “Really?”

“I don’t need reassurance to know I’m right,” Kurt says airily, flicking on the CD player.

***

After that, they talk more often. On weekdays, Blaine will see Kurt walking to class and they’ll nod. On the weekends, Kurt will stop by the senior common room and linger for a while, happy to talk. They keep the conversations relatively impersonal: school, fashion, and the dreaded French assignment looming in Blaine’s future.

“If you’re really struggling, I could help,” Kurt offers, long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the back of the leather sofa. “It’s one of my best subjects.”

“If you have the time,” Blaine says, wanting to give Kurt an easy excuse to say no. He needs the help but Kurt probably has better things to do. “I think I’m the worst student in the class, so any help would be great.”

Kurt shrugs it off. “Finding time to sit around and converse in French isn’t a hardship for me. I promise to forgive bad grammar as long as we get to discuss clothes.”

***

“You look like you need to go home again.”

Blaine jumps a little at the sudden noise and looks over to see Kurt leaning in the doorway of the junior common room. He’s found the junior common room is better for studying. There’s no piano to distract him from his textbooks. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been making agreeable noises about everything for days. I’d much prefer an actual opinion. Clearly, you need to go home again.”

Blaine glances at the work spread across the table. Part of him knows Kurt’s right; the rest of him wants to smile wider and deny it on general principle. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“I can see the signs. Homesickness is a very common malady.” Kurt shrugs, and adds, “Although it’s usually more common in freshmen.”

“Not transfers?”

Kurt rolls his eyes, but Blaine knows his point was made. “And Dad wants me to come home this weekend. He wants to introduce me to someone.”

“Like a blind date?”

“I hope not,” Kurt says, looking horrified beyond words. “I have no idea who Dad would think I’d be interested in.”

“You really can’t imagine it?” Blaine knows he’s fishing for information but Kurt’s never mentioned a girlfriend. Not that they’ve spoken in great detail: most of their conversations involve Kurt’s perfectly accented sarcasm, Blaine’s French-to-English dictionary and Kurt’s surprisingly gentle patience. Blaine still only understands half of Kurt’s lilting sentences, but he’s getting better.

Kurt’s told him about fashion magazines and bargain hunting online, about car maintenance and assignment deadlines. He’s talked at length about the difficulty of running the drama club single-handed, but when he gets excited and speaks quickly, Blaine can’t quite follow the complaints. He’s not entirely sure why Adrian Thompson is the bane of Kurt’s dramatic ambitions, but he knows Kurt was thrilled when Adrian accidentally fell off the stage and did something to his ankle. (Blaine’s still not sure what. He couldn’t quite catch the words Kurt used.)

But Kurt’s never talked about dating or girlfriends. He’s admired actresses, talked about Hollywood gossip and award ceremony dresses, but he’s never admitted to any crushes. It gives Blaine hope. It’s a silly, futile hope – there’s a mocking voice inside him to remind Blaine that even if Kurt’s not exactly straight, it still doesn’t mean he would look twice at Blaine – but he’s always been an optimist.

“I’m seeing head-to-toe denim and tragic Ginger Spice hair.”

“Whereas your ideal blind date would be…”

Kurt taps a finger against his lips, thinking. Blaine keeps his gaze resolutely on Kurt’s eyes. “A Tom Ford single-breasted suit from this season and the blue McQueen scarf from last month’s Vogue. There would definitely be labels involved. A label that didn’t say Walmart.”

It’s not definitive. Tom Ford does have a women’s line and a scarf could be for either gender, but there’s a good chance Kurt’s ideal would be a guy. Blaine busies himself tidying up his notes, ducking his head to hide his grin. “So, next weekend?”

***

When he tells his mom, she asks if Kurt’s driving him home again. She even remembers Kurt’s name.

“It’s not anything, Mom. Really,” Blaine says earnestly, willing her to believe him. “He’s just a friend.”

His mom hums. “Maybe you should invite him to dinner. As a thank you for the ride.”

For a moment, Blaine wants to agree. There’s something about the idea of Kurt in his home that’s very appealing. He could imagine Kurt talking to his mom about interior designs or French cooking and charming her without even trying. He thinks Kurt would like his mom. “Isn’t Dad home this weekend?”

“Yes, he’ll be so glad to see you,” his mom chirps happily.

Privately, Blaine suspects he won’t be. His dad won’t say anything about it but Blaine’s grown up reading between the lines, working out what isn’t said. “I think Kurt would prefer if I paid for a tank of gas instead. After all, he’s driving all that way to visit his family. I’m sure they’d have plans.”

***

Blaine isn’t entirely surprised that his dad has to work the weekend. His mom says there’s a report due to the board on Monday and it’s important for the family’s future. Good, logical reasons for his dad to spend Friday night in his study and be at the office before Blaine wakes up on Saturday morning. Blaine tells himself not to read anything into it.

Secretly, he wonders if he should be saying no when Kurt offers a ride. Maybe coming home makes things harder than they need to be.

***

Blaine’s not expecting to talk to Kurt until the drive back Sunday, but he gets a phone call on Saturday afternoon. His mom answers. When she hands the phone to Blaine, saying his friend’s on the phone, she gives him such a fond, mothering smile that Blaine can feel his ears start to heat. He has nothing to be embarrassed about. Friends call friends all the time. Kurt calling him at home means nothing.

“He probably wants to confirm when he’s picking me up,” Blaine says and his mom gives him that smile again and then thankfully leaves him in peace. “Hi, Kurt.”

“I’m coming at four,” Kurt says, making Blaine so glad his mom hadn’t said anything too embarrassing. “That’s not going to change.”

“So why did you call?” Blaine blurts out, and then realises how rude it sounds. “I’m glad you did but you usually don’t.”

“That’s why I don’t have your number. Luckily, there aren’t too many Andersons in the phone book.”

“There’s a few,” Blaine points out. “It’s not an uncommon surname.”

“None of them have sons named Blaine. Otherwise I’d be talking to them,” Kurt replies sharply.

It’s a little thrilling to think of Kurt trawling through the phone book, calling every Anderson in the area. “Oh.”

“Anyway,” Kurt says, dragging the word out until it frays awkwardly. “…I thought you might want to go see a movie.”

Blaine can feel the grin stretching his cheeks. “With you?”

“I can’t spend the rest of the night here, and it’s not like I know anybody else in this town,” Kurt says reasonably, and Blaine lets out a strangled breath.

Of _course_ , Blaine thinks. Of course Kurt’s bored and trying to find something to do. It’s not personal. “Actually, I promised some old friends I’d go to a party. But you could come too, if you want.”

“Anything’s better than being stuck here,” Kurt says, taking a breath before adding, “What’s the dress code?”

***

Blaine spends the party the way he usually does: sitting in a corner, mostly overlooked. New Directions have always been such a small group that it’s obvious if you don’t attend, but everyone’s so loud and dramatic that Blaine doesn’t have to do anything once he’s there. He can sit on a couch and talk to Mike and Tina for a while; he’ll offer to play designated driver if people drink too much or he’ll stick around to help with the clean-up afterwards. He never drinks at these parties because he’s not sure what he’d say. It always seemed like a stupid risk to take.

Kurt once talked about why he quit the Warblers, citing that it was too soul-destroying to be someone he wasn’t just to blend into a crowd. Blaine had changed the subject, feeling unreasonably guilty in his Dalton blazer and tie. Dalton hasn’t forced him to fit in. Blaine’s had years of practice at being in the right place and saying just enough to be ignored.

Kurt does the opposite. He strode into the room and complimented Mercedes’ outfit. He was charming to Tina and argued Broadway with Rachel. He made an entrance and then spent the rest of the party chatting with Mercedes, helping her cart things back and forth from the kitchen.

Maybe Blaine should have thought of it earlier. The real trick to being unnoticed is to arrive with someone far more interesting. Not that he minds. He’s used to hovering at the edges of things, smiling on cue and being what everyone expects.

So when Santana holds a bottle above her head and hollers that it’s time to get this party started, Blaine laughs and moves towards the group, just as he’s expected to do. It’s not until they’re sitting on the floor, in a shape that has an empty space in the middle but otherwise doesn’t resemble a circle at all, that he realises it was a mistake.

“Dude,” Puck says, pointing a meaty finger at him, “Spin the Bottle isn’t for homos.”

Before Blaine can say anything, Santana spins her head around to face Puck. “He may be the lovechild of Liberace and Elton John,” she says, and Blaine’s almost flattered by that, “but he still kisses better than you, Puckerman.”

“Nobody kisses better than the Puckster!” Puck yelps, outraged and more than a little buzzed.

“Half the people in this room kiss better than you,” Santana replies. “Believe me, I know.”

“Says you,” Puck mutters, arms crossed and glaring at the whole room. “There’s no way gayboy kisses better than me. Using his mouth in a prison-love way, sure, but I’m the better kisser.”

Blaine raises his palms in surrender. “Guys, I can sit this one out.” It’ll be easier this way. Best to stand up and step away from the crowd. He can’t change what they think of him, but he doesn’t have to sit here and listen to it. “Besides, I think we’re running low on drinks. I brought my brother’s old ID if we need to do a beer run.”

It’s enough of an excuse to ease away to the kitchen. He’s expecting Kurt to still be talking to Mercedes and Rachel in the kitchen, but Kurt’s leaning just outside the doorway. The background music was low, and Puck and Santana tend to be loud even when they’re not drinking. There’s a good chance Kurt heard all of that.

“They’re not as obnoxious when they’re sober,” Blaine lies, forcing himself to smile like it’s a joke. 

Usually when he smiles, other people smile back and don’t pay much attention to what he says. Kurt doesn’t smile back. His clear blue eyes watch Blaine carefully. “Do you want to leave?”

Blaine should say no. Kurt’s clearly enjoying himself in the kitchen. Kurt was the one who wanted to away from home for a while. Blaine invited him and it’s not fair to cut his night short just because Blaine’s friends are thoughtless. Blaine should have a thicker skin. He should have expected it. “I don’t want to spoil your night,” Blaine says, giving a shake of his head.

Kurt tilts his head, blinking like a curious sparrow. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” This time, Blaine’s sure his smile is more convincing.

“Then join us for some civilised conversation,” Kurt says, steering Blaine towards the kitchen with a hand pressed to the middle of Blaine’s shoulders. It’s ridiculous that such a tiny touch makes Blaine’s heart beat faster. He does his best to keep his breathing steady as Kurt adds, “Something tells me you would have definite views on Patti LuPone.”

***

Blaine falls asleep on the ride home. When he wakes up, Kurt’s watching him, eyes soft and pale in the streetlight. They’re parked outside Blaine’s house and the headlights are turned off. “Kurt?”

“My dad gave me this car for my sixteenth birthday,” Kurt says quietly. “Not for any particular reason. Because he could.”

Blaine nods. Being given a car isn’t unusual amongst Dalton boys. Blaine tries not to be jealous since his own parents refuse to do it on principle. His dad used to talk about restoring an old car with Blaine, about earning freedom and bonding over hot summer days in a garage, but he hasn’t mentioned the idea in years. His dad never has the spare time. It’s completely understandable.

Blaine’s been saving for years. By the time he gets out of high school, he’ll have a way of leaving.

“I know that he loves me,” Kurt continues, thinking carefully before he voices his thoughts, “but he doesn’t really know me. Most of the time, we don’t even live in the same town.”

“But he loves you,” Blaine says. “You said it yourself.”

“How much is love worth when people don’t know who you really are?”

Blaine shrugs. It’s better than being hated, he thinks. “It’s still love,” he says gently and Kurt looks away. Blaine takes that as his cue to get out of the car. Kurt waits until he’s opened his front door before he starts the engine and drives away.

***

The last time Kurt picked him up for the drive back to Dalton, he was wearing indigo wash jeans and a simple white t-shirt. He looked good – he always looks good, at least in Blaine’s opinion – but compared to his boots and scarves and brooches, it was a very plain look. This time, Kurt’s wearing brown corduroy pants with a camouflage-print shirt buttoned up to his neck and a cream linen vest. It makes his eyes look incredibly green.

It takes Blaine a moment to notice the patterned bowtie hiding amongst the camouflage design. It’s delightful.

“You look incredible,” Blaine says, belatedly realising that’s not something guys usually say to each other. He needs to think before he speaks. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

“But I _do_ look incredible.” Kurt grins and does a quick spin on one heel. “You’d have to be blind not to notice.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I talked to my dad last night. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

***

Kurt tells him about falling in love with boarding schools in the books his mom used to read to him. How he talked his dad into applying for a scholarship at Dalton, how his dad couldn’t have afforded it otherwise. (Here, Blaine has to ask about the car and Kurt explains that it was written off in an insurance claim. His dad bought it for a song, and most of the repairs were done in-house.) He talks about how different he is from his dad and how living away from home made it easier to figure out what those differences meant.

“We stopped talking after I went to Dalton. It’s not like we weren’t speaking to each other, but we didn’t talk about anything real. We weren’t living together and it was…” Kurt sighs, shrugging without taking his hands off the wheel.

“Easier,” Blaine supplies. He knows all about taking the easy option.

Kurt gives him a too-knowing look. “Easier, yes. He didn’t bring anything up and I didn’t, and watching you last night got me thinking.”

“About what?”

“About letting somebody see only the parts of you they want to see. About how frightening it can be to talk honestly and let people in.”

Blaine frowns. Kurt’s not like him. Kurt doesn’t fade into the role he’s supposed to play. Kurt is always himself, brave and bold, demanding respect. He bends the rules of Dalton to suit himself: brooches pinned to his blazer, tie-pins through the Dalton stripes, letting Blaine use the piano in the senior common room. He reigns over the drama club like a benevolent dictator, caring, kind and absolute in his decrees.

“I don’t understand how that applies to you,” Blaine says, as politely as he can.

“Dad’s met someone. He’s dating her. That’s who he wanted me to meet. They seem perfect for each other, right down to the matching denim, and apparently she has a quarterback for a son. It sounded like a perfect family, as long as I wasn’t there. Like I was unnecessary, or replaceable, or something.” Kurt twists a hand in the air, fingers back on the steering wheel a moment later. “And I’m not.”

“Of course not.”

“I didn’t want to hide the truth by not saying anything, so I told him how I honestly felt about his new girlfriend and I… came out,” Kurt says wonderingly, as if it still doesn’t feel real. “I’ve never had to tell anyone I was gay. Everyone assumes and they’re right, so I’m not going to argue it, but… I came out to my dad last night.”

Blaine thinks of his own parents, their quiet acceptance followed by not talking about the real reason he’s changed schools. He thinks of Cooper, who’d said, “Huh, really? Guess that explains the bowties. Always thought that was weird on a little kid,” and then talked about his audition for a commercial. Blaine knows that not every family is so understanding. Not everyone’s as lucky as he was.

“How did he take it?” Blaine asks carefully. Kurt’s in a good mood, but he’s still wary.

“He said that he knew. That he’d known since I was a kid and that he loved me. That he’d always love me. No matter how different we seem, we’re family and that means—” He chokes up, and Blaine glances away when he realises Kurt’s eyes are glassy. “There were tears on both sides. Hallmark moments all around.”

“I’m so glad,” Blaine says, because he is. Kurt’s incredible, and he deserves people in his life who accept all the wonderful things he is. “That’s such a big thing.”

“It’s huge,” Kurt agrees, grinning and blinking rapidly. “But it’s good.”

***

They fall into a routine of spending every second weekend driving back to Lima and Elida. Since Kurt came out, his dad has insisted on more regular visits, and Kurt seemed happy to agree.

It’s worked out well for Blaine, too. He gets to spend more time at home with his mom. His dad’s always conveniently busy, and Blaine suspects he’s the reason. If he were stronger or braver, he’d make things easier for everyone and stay at school, but he likes going home. He likes being able to sleep in his own bed once every two weeks. He also likes the drive with Kurt. He likes getting to talk to Kurt for hours and singing along with his wide selection of Broadway tunes.

But Kurt seems to be on campus more often on those other weekends. It’s not unusual for them to spend a few hours together in one of the common rooms, catching up on homework or taking turns at the piano. Today, Kurt has a copy of Vogue spread across his lap and trigonometry homework piled on the coffee table. “You never told me why you transferred to Dalton,” Kurt says, restlessly flicking over a page.

Blaine keeps playing _Collide_ but stops humming along. “The official story is it looks better on college applications.”

“And the real reason?”

Blaine focuses on the keys beneath his fingers, stalling for time. “I was having trouble with bullying,” he says, hoping Kurt will drop it. It’s not an interesting story. It’s not important now.

“How come?” Kurt asks.

Blaine takes a steadying breath and reminds himself of the school handbook. A Dalton gentleman does not lie. A Dalton gentleman reports the truth without embellishment or bias. “There were rumours going around the school. That I was gay.”

“I figured that out from the way your friends talked to you,” Kurt replies. “Mercedes said it was bad, but she wouldn’t go into details.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blaine says, because if he keeps saying that, eventually he’ll believe it too. “I’m here now.”

Kurt quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are you happy?”

Blaine has to think. His instinctual response is habit and politeness and what everyone expects to hear. But Kurt’s always wanted honesty before manners. “I’m not unhappy,” he says finally, “and that’s close enough.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Kurt says, in the same clear tone he uses to allocate roles and explain character motivation to teenage boys who are mostly interested in meeting girls. “You act as if you have to fade into the background to be tolerated. As if not being unhappy is acceptable, as if it’s all you could ask for. You settle for so little when you deserve so much more.”

“No, I don’t,” Blaine says, because he doesn’t behave like that. He makes the best of things and appreciates what he does have. Those aren’t bad traits.

Kurt raises an eyebrow, but for once it doesn’t seem haughty. His eyes are too kind for that. He watches Blaine curiously for a moment, and then turns back to his magazine. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything else.

***

Blaine keeps thinking about Kurt’s words. They itch under his skin.

They’re not true. That’s what he tells himself until he starts to doubt himself. Maybe what he sees as fitting in, Kurt sees as fading into the background. Maybe consoling himself that Dalton feels as good as McKinley, uncomfortable in different ways, isn’t the same thing as enjoying school. Blaine thinks discretion involves considering other people, holding back certain truths to keep everyone at ease, but maybe Kurt sees that as hiding and pretending to be someone else.

Kurt might be right about that last point.

Blaine’s always wanted to be better than he is. He’s always wanted to be braver and stronger. He’s polite and friendly and does well on tests, but he’s always had that nagging doubt in the back of his head that it’s not enough. That he should be more. That he always falls short of the mark. That if he tried harder, he could be smarter and self-assured. He could be someone people want to know, an example to others, a source of pride.

He’s not like Kurt. But that doesn’t mean he can’t try to be better.

***

Kurt stands proudly by his opinion. Kurt gets excited about taking on a challenge. Kurt suggested show tunes to the Warblers.

Blaine’s not quite so brave, but he does sign up for the solo auditions. He spent two years at McKinley and sang in weekly challenges when required, but he’s never had a competition solo. He’s never even tried for one. It was much easier to sit back and let Santana, Rachel, Quinn and Mercedes fight it out. If they wanted a male lead besides Finn, there was Artie, Puck or Sam.

But the Warblers don’t work by infighting and vying for popularity. They have audition sheets and allocated times and a bench full of nervous Warblers sitting in the hall. Blaine keeps his fingers clenched in his lap, trying not to be nervous. He knows that everyone else in this hallway has auditioned multiple times and has never had a solo. He knows that he tried to channel Kurt’s bravely unapologetic approach and picked a song that he loves, rather than a song the Warblers would approve. (Yes, they do pop, but love songs are always by male artists. A Katy Perry song that references make-up is not in their comfort zone.) 

In all likelihood, Blaine won’t even make it to the second round.

Blaine keeps telling himself it’s not as frightening as it feels. It’s not really a risk because there’s no way they’ll approve the song choice, even if they like his voice. He can let go and enjoy performing it, because there’s no way they’ll choose him to lead this song in front of a crowd.

The last thing he’s expecting is a standing ovation from the council as he finishes the final note.

***

It gets officially announced at the next Warbler rehearsal. Blaine smiles, nodding and graciously accepting the applause, and quietly, secretly freaks out. It’s Regionals. He’s singing lead at Regionals. He won’t be the only one on stage, but it’s still his first solo to outsiders. And it’s going to be in front of the biggest crowd he can imagine.

He can’t say that to any of the Warblers. It’s an honour to be chosen, especially the first time he auditioned. It would be ungrateful and impolite to question their judgment.

So Blaine waits for rehearsals to finish and then heads straight for the auditorium. The Warblers and drama club rehearsals clash, but the Warblers rehearsals are shorter and more frequent. The drama club only rehearses twice a week, but in three-hour sessions. It’s not the first time Blaine’s snuck in the back of the auditorium to watch them go through their lines as Kurt impassively tells them what to improve.

The auditorium feels slightly removed from the rest of Dalton. There’s always backdrops and half-built staging sitting around, small groups of students steadily working on different things, laughing and chatting but falling silent when Kurt demands it. Nobody wears uniforms – Kurt made it a club rule when he took over this year. Officially, Kurt claims too much of a character’s personality is in the clothing to stifle that with a uniform. (Driving back to Dalton, where no one could overhear, he admitted that he wanted an excuse to ditch the blazer and tie. He said the greatest appeal to new members was meeting Crawford girls and getting out of the uniform for a few hours.)

Mostly, Blaine goes to watch Kurt. On his own, Kurt seems confident and certain, but that’s magnified from the director’s chair. He watches everyone and demands their best effort. Blaine’s seen Kurt’s head bowed in hushed conversations, talking someone through stage fright or a difficult scene. (He’s not going to tell Kurt this, but sometimes it makes Blaine think of his mom. It’s hard to be kind and encouraging while insisting that people do better, but Kurt does it well.)

And then there’s Kurt onstage. Kurt is luminescent. He shines so brightly he doesn’t need a spotlight. Blaine can’t imagine how an audience could focus on anything else.

Blaine sits at the back of the dark auditorium, arms folded over the back of the next row of chairs, chin resting on his crossed wrists, and watches. He should be studying stage presence and how to draw a crowd’s attention, but they’re really good. When Kurt’s onstage, Blaine’s only thinking of the story and the music and the beautiful lines of Kurt’s face under those bright lights.

He stays where he is, unseen amongst the empty, shadowed seats, as the drama club finishes rehearsing and packs away the sets. Most of them leave through the side-door, guys eagerly escorting the girls to the parking lot, but Kurt stays. He gathers up pages and makes a few notes in his folder, then he walks up the aisle towards the back of the auditorium.

Embarrassed, Blaine hunches down in his seat, hoping Kurt won’t see him.

But Kurt walks straight to his row of chairs, saying, “Usually, you only stay for half an hour.”

Blaine can feel the flush creep up his neck. “You knew I’d been sneaking in?”

“I’m the leader of this motley crew,” Kurt says, grin sharp and sudden. “I know everything that happens on and around this stage. I also know how deeply you love _High Society_ , but I don’t know why you’re still here.”

If anyone at Dalton could understand, it would be Kurt. Kurt’s always been honest and kind, and he has no trouble standing in the middle of a stage and flirting with the spotlight. Blaine’s sure Kurt can help. “They announced the results of the solo auditions today.”

Kurt’s frown is soft and sweet. He sits in the chair beside Blaine. “You know how hidebound they can be. Seniority really does matter to them, and you’re still the new kid. Whatever they said, you can’t take it personally.”

Blaine all but whispers the words. “I got it.”

“You did?”

“They want me to lead the group at Regionals. On _Teenage Dream_ ,” Blaine says.

Kurt’s hands fly up to cover his mouth, and he lets out a delighted laugh. “I can’t believe you got them to agree to that song. That’s… outstanding. Really, Blaine, that’s fantastic.”

“No, it’s not! It’s Regionals. I’ve never sung a solo outside of the choir room.” Blaine hears his voice getting higher and panicked, but he can’t help it. He can’t hide this. Not from Kurt. “I’ll forget the words or I’ll forget the steps, and it’s a theatre full of people. We’re going to lose Regionals, and it’ll be my fault.”

“It won’t be.” Kurt’s hand reaches out and wraps around Blaine’s. His fingers are soft and dry, and Blaine’s not sure why they’re holding hands, but they are. “You can do this.”

“What if mess it up? What if I’m not good enough?”

“It’s not the end of the world if you don’t win Regionals. Nobody will hate you for that.”

“I’m trying so hard here, Kurt. I can’t— I don’t want to—” Blaine doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s holding on to Kurt’s hand like a drowning man clings to a life raft. “I don’t want to make a mess of things.”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I’ve heard you,” Kurt says, leaning closer and giving Blaine’s hand a quick squeeze. “You’re incredible. Stop spending all your time pretending to be one of the crowd, and let people see you. They’d love you too. I mean, they’d see how amazing you are.”

It’s not the words. It’s the way Kurt ducks his head away; it’s the way his cheeks go pink but he doesn’t pull his hand away. It’s a revelation.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, awed and hopeful, but he doesn’t know what else to say. Not when Kurt looks up – and he’s Kurt Hummel again, bold and fearless, able to outshine everything around him – leans in and presses his lips to Blaine’s. It’s an act of bravery, yet the kiss itself is sweet and surprisingly gentle.

Kurt pulls back and smiles. “Just let people see. Let them see you the way I see you.”

In that moment, anything feels possible.

***

The only reason Blaine doesn’t hyperventilate on the way to Regionals is that he’s too busy rehearsing their performance numbers. Well, that and the black Navigator that follows the bus all the way from the school.

When they slowly exit the bus, Kurt’s already waiting in the parking lot. He grabs Blaine’s hand and kisses him on the cheek. “You’re going to be great. I’ll be watching the whole time.” Kurt holds his head up high, ignoring the glares from the council, and gives Blaine a cheery little wave before heading inside.

Backstage, Blaine gets a text message from his mom, wishing him luck and promising to clap as loudly as they can. It’s a little surprising that his dad actually came – Blaine hadn’t been counting on it – but it’s a good surprise.

Nearly as good as running into Santana, Brittany and Tina on his way back from the bathroom.

“Blaine!” Tina beams at him and pulls him into a hug. “It’s so good to see you, even if I’m so nervous I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“If you let your mascara run one more time, Little Miss Cries-a-lot, I’m going to let Rachel fix your make-up,” Santana snaps at her, before turning to Blaine with a narrow look. “So you’re our competition, huh?”

Blaine nods. “I’m singing one of the solos.”

“You never sing solos,” Tina says, “I guess you really like it there. You’re happy, right?”

Blaine thinks of studiously organised rehearsals and calm, safe hallways. He thinks of Kurt’s hand in his, sitting in the senior common room, staring at his calculus homework until it makes sense. He thinks of two-hour drives and singing show tunes and talking, knowing he’ll be heard. He thinks of the terrifying dinner with Kurt’s dad, a whole meal on his best behaviour when Blaine couldn’t help smiling every time Kurt looked at him; the equally terrifying dinner with his own family, Kurt sitting across the table from Blaine’s father and talking about those unsaid things.

“I really am,” Blaine says, and for the first time, he means it. “I miss you guys, but I’ve found a place where I belong.”

“Good to hear, but just so you know, we’re going to make mincemeat of your unconvincingly heterosexual choir,” Santana says, with a grin so wide she should be a cartoon. She tugs at Tina’s elbow until Tina starts walking with her.

“Don’t freeze,” Brittany adds. As they walk back to their dressing room, Blaine hears her ask Santana something about a magic comb and if she should have given him one. He goes to check his hair, but it’s fine.

***

There’s a moment of darkness on the stage before the lights come up. Blaine takes a breath – thinks of his parents and Kurt sitting in the audience, ready to see the best of him; thinks of old friends and new, how home and belonging can mean so many things – and then sings with everything he has.


End file.
